


Isabelle au Bois Dormant

by moojuicey



Category: Twilight Series - Stephenie Meyer
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-08-12
Updated: 2009-08-12
Packaged: 2017-11-07 02:55:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,625
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/426137
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moojuicey/pseuds/moojuicey
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU, written for a fairy-tale challenge. When true love's kiss fails, it seems nothing will rouse the sleeping beauty. And when the queen has a change of heart, can she find the strength to give what she must to break her own spell?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Isabelle au Bois Dormant

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: All I own is a mountain of debt.

She always felt this wood held magic; the trees were hundreds of years old, limbs gnarled and twisted in some places, shooting straight and true for the sun in others. The sunshine shimmered through the boughs, lighting the maiden’s path to the blackberry bushes just the other side of her father’s estate. These were her quarry: she could always ply her father’s will with sweets; thus, a blackberry torte was in order this e’en. Though she plucked them with care, she could not escape a few pricks and pokes. _Baking is such a trial_ , she thought with mirth, knowing that she’d bake to the ends of the earth if all she had to endure were a few thorny blackberry bushes along the way. To bake sweets, one must only follow a recipe. _If only every part of life were as simple_ , she wished. Her basket finally full of the sweet summer fruit, she stole a few for a snack against a nearby fallen trunk. With her lips and fingertips stained a nice bright violet, she settled against the warm, pliant wood to listen to the sounds of the forest around her. The afternoon was seasonably warm and wet, but a breeze cut the tension a bit as it rustled through the leaves. The cicadas buzzed away, their effect soporific on young Isabelle, who felt her eyes droop with fatigue.

 

Her dreams were of Sir Edward alone, as always. She’d met Edward, Duc de Normandie, thrice, always at one of the Queen’s balls. Queen Rosalie the Fair they called her, for her beauty rivaled that of Helen, they all proclaimed. She enjoyed throwing balls and holding court, and it was a rare occasion that Isabelle could not convince her father Charles to allow her to attend. And Sir Edward always danced with her, though she could barely keep time with the other courtesans and stumbled her way through the steps. Whenever they danced close enough, Edward grew a wily grin and lifted her toes onto his own, her gown covering their skullduggery. And they danced and they danced, though it might’ve seemed unsuitable since he had yet to declare himself to her. In her dream, her dress was fine and his arms were warm; they circled the ballroom again and again, and when she thought she might fall over from dizziness, he spoke beautiful, soft words to her, and her balance was righted once more.

 

Shaking herself from the spell of the cicadas’ hypnotic rhythm, Isabelle found herself refreshed, remembering tonight’s goal: bartering a blackberry torte for another chance to dance and flirt with Sir Edward aux Cheveux-Cuivré, Duke of Normandy.

 

***

 

Her father returned home little more than ten minutes after she pulled the torte from the fire. Charles Cygne-Chancelant was a law-keeper and well-respected Guild member in Rheims, where he and his daughter lived following the death of his wife Renée. He always asked the Lord to look after her since he could no longer.

 

“Lord, thank you for this meal and for my lovely daughter who used Your gifts to cook it. Look after us in this life, and Renée in the next. In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti. Amen.” He tucked in to Isabelle’s mustard-glazed chicken and squash, and Isabelle smiled at her father. They ate an easy meal together, exchanging stories about their day. Apparently James, Count of Champagne, was alarmed about a series of thefts in the last few weeks, and Charles was charged with bringing justice to those James found guilty.  Thinking better of his dinner etiquette, her father said no more on the subject.

 

“I also visited the crown this week, Isabelle,” he began as Isabelle served her torte. She didn’t know what tidings this revelation might bring, and so simply asked him what transpired. “I know you make me these sweets when you wish to attend another of the Queen’s “grands bals” ma petite chère, but I cannot consent this time.” Isabelle was crestfallen. Surely Edward would think her cold should she not attend, and then he would never seek to declare himself. What would she do? Interpreting her confusion and anguish, her father continued. “Her Highness has requested your services as a lady-in-waiting, to begin tomorrow. You will attend the ball in whatever capacity the Queen desires.”

 

Surely a fair Queen such as Rosalie would know the heart of a maid such as hers? Would understand the desire to show a man her affections lest she be judged cold to his attention? Isabelle had faith Her Highness would be eager to encourage love in whatever form, and so put the matter from her mind. Isabelle was sad to say goodbye to her father, though she knew they’d not likely be parted long. She worried that he would find insufficient sustenance without her gifts at the hearth, but he assured her he would endure and look forward to visits at the royal castle soon. The carriage secured for the morning’s voyage, Isabelle found herself under her bedclothes achieving only fitful sleep. She woke no better for having tossed and turned all night.

 

After a thankfully uneventful carriage ride to the castle, Isabelle was shown to her quarters, shared with three peers—ladies with whom she was familiar, she was happy to find—Isaac and Rebecca’s daughter Angela and Philippe and Denise’s daughters Jessica and Lauren. It seems they were all being rotated into the Queen’s service on this day, and so had little time to dally with pleasantries. Before they could lose themselves in the cold, labyrinthine passages throughout the castle, a servant showed them to Her Majesty’s chambers, and they instead lost themselves in her cold, unreadable eyes as she spoke.

 

“Ye shall come when I call, and not before. Ye shall bow your heads in my presence, and ye shall bear whatever requests I make of you. Should I say to thee, Jessica” (and here, she approached Jessica with an expression Isabelle could only define as malice, though she’d not seen a look like it often enough to know for certain) “that I wish thee to cut thy beautiful hair to thy skull, for it is too beautiful next to mine, thou will search for whatever sharp object is at thy disposal and do so at once. Should I approach thee, Lauren, and tell thee to wash my feet like the Magdalene did for our Savior, thou will wash my feet like the harlot thou are. Pious Angela, should I ask it of thee, I expect thee to spread thy naked knees and take a man between them like Lauren does regularly without request. And Isabelle, dear…”

 

_Gulp._

 

“My first request of you, lady, is that thine eyes no longer find those of Sir Edward of Normandy. And though thou will serve me at the grand bal a fortnight hence, thou will not offend the rest of my company by dancing.” An inappropriately sweet smile stretched across Her Majesty’s face, and she dismissed her new ladies. Isabelle suspected she was not the only one with tears in her eyes as they walked quietly back through the lower corridors.

 

***

 

The days passed mostly without incident, though Isabelle was undoubtedly at the receiving end of most of the Queen’s insults. Her ladies found solace in each other when Rosalie was absent. She was an enigma, beautiful and terrible and feared; she held some secret close to her breast that her servants were forbidden to tell though the ladies-in-waiting begged. All they would reveal was an epithet Majesty certainly must not know: Rosalie, la Beautée Abimée. The ladies wondered just what could have ruined Rosalie enough to earn that title and turn her to such wickedness against them. These disturbing thoughts kept Isabelle company until the night of the ball.

 

The ladies saw their Queen dressed to observe the ball. “I’d like only Isabelle to accompany me into the ballroom. Ye ladies may adjourn wherever ye see fit, only that your faces do not offend me until morning. Come, Isabelle. Let us observe how Sir Edward fares in thy absence. I expect many ladies here will be happy to comfort him.” As the ladies-in-waiting departed, Isabelle and Rosalie made their way to the ballroom, where Isabelle would once have seen magic in its resplendence. Instead, she felt an outsider, doomed. Without her Edward and stuck in the clutches of the Ruined Beauty, she felt hopeless. She followed Queen Rosalie as she greeted the courtesans and guests good e’en. They retired to a raised observation platform in full view of the entrance hallway, where stood Isabelle’s sweet Edward.

 

“Lower thine eyes, girl.” Which was just as well, Isabelle thought, for they were immediately filled with tears for her lost love. A few moments later, Rosalie bade her lift them, and greeted two men without escorts. “Husband; James of Champagne. How fare ye this e’en?”

 

“Fine indeed, Majesty,” James simpered. Isabelle was still staring at the man Queen Rosalie addressed as “husband” with fear. Royce, Duc de Bourgogne. _His_ epithet was well-known: Le Malin. The Evil One. Suddenly, exactly what (or rather, _who_ ) happened to “ruin” the Queen seemed quite plain. Le Malin bowed to his Queen and wife but kept his mouth shut with clear disdain. To Isabelle’s surprise, he was gone as quickly as he appeared.

 

James lingered, however, and danced with every lady without an escort, his hands often resting in inappropriate places on several of the girls’ bodies. Her only solace was that she was not allowed to watch Edward dance with any ladies, though she was certain his hands would never touch her _anywhere_ without her permission. Isabelle often found her eyes wandering, seeking out Sir Edward, but Rosalie reminded her of her duty whenever she was in danger of approaching her goal. Every time, Isabelle bit her lip in frustration to keep herself from crying. Certainly her Edward would think she abandoned him by this point? He’d no doubt move on to other, prettier, warmer maidens; by the time she would be allowed to find him again, he’d surely have found himself a suitable wife already. 

 

“You know, Isabelle, I’m quite unsatisfied with thy service at the moment. I made one small request of thee, and thou cannot help but defy it, can thou? It seems thou are deficient in the art of obedience. Perhaps a husband that will force thee to understand the term’s meaning would do thee well. As it is, I spoke with thy father on the matter this morn. He agrees, he is quite incapable of choosing a husband for thee; since I am acquainted with all the kingdom’s men, and thou and I are such dear _bosom friends_ now, he agreed that I would be better suited to choose for thee. Normally, a Queen would not perform such mundane duties, but I feel quite satisfied with the task and my choice for thee nevertheless. I’ve invited him here tonight so that thou might learn his character some and accustom thyself to his presence.”

 

Isabelle was crying freely now, no longer worried about decorum. She knew the Queen had this power, especially if she had the consent of her father. She had no choice. And when she saw to whom the Queen gestured, the icy blue eyes of James of Champagne terrified her. The Queen meant to ruin Isabelle as well. “James is often in the company of my husband, and is quite as despicable as he, Isabelle.” Isabelle had no idea what she’d done to displease Her Majesty so much, but the Queen’s evil grin surely meant she’d done something extremely awful though she couldn’t remember it. Unable to speak, Isabelle simply listened to the next words in a half-panic. “If he’s anything like Royce, and I suspect he is, thou will be unable to move thy legs for weeks after thy nuptials. On your wedding night, he will ravage and he will defile thee. He will use thee for his pleasure again and again, and when thou has no more screaming in thee, perhaps he will kill thee. It would be the merciful thing to do. Thou are dismissed for the evening, Isabelle.”

 

Isabelle had shifted from sorrow to panic and anger as the Queen spoke, and resolved to escape Rosalie’s clutches immediately. Once out of the Queen’s vision, Isabelle searched the ballroom frantically for any sign of an ally. She knew she could not trouble Sir Edward for she would only condemn him in the process, but when she spotted Alice, the healer’s daughter, declining a dance with Michael of Burgundy, she prayed and took her chance. She caught Alice’s eye and pleaded for her to follow out a back corridor.

 

After relaying her situation, Isabelle asked desperately, “Can thou help me? There are tales that thy mother, the healer, has secret methods at her disposal for times such as these. Will thou risk thyself to help me escape to her?”

 

“Aye, my friend. She does, and I will. My carriage is covered, so the guard will not see thee escape. Thy father is our neighbor, true? Then it is less of a risk if anyone should discover us; they may assume I deliver you to him rather than safety. Come. We will take our leave now.” And just that simply, Isabelle felt Alice delivered her hope.

 

***

 

Esme was surprised to see two maidens emerge from the carriage a few hours later but offered her sympathy and her arms in a hug once her daughter and I relayed my woeful tale. “But what, pray, can I do for thee Isabelle? I cannot convince Her Majesty otherwise, nor remake James of Champagne in some other fashion, nor persuade Sir Edward to risk his Duchy for thee. I do wish to help, but thou must tell me how I can, child.”

 

“There are those about who talk, milady. Those who say thou has a great mind for herbs and potions, greater than is common to healers, ma’am. They say thou has power to bring relief from pain, to bring life to those near death, and to bring death to those too near to it to avoid it.” Isabelle waited with baited breath.

 

“And thou wishes me to bring death to thee? A healthy maid, a friend and beloved of so many?”

 

“In some fashion, ma’am. I cannot marry James: he will surely ruin me—my father as well, likely, when he gets word of James’ actions against me. There must be a way to undo this, to avoid such terrible things? Death is surely that way. Can thou make a draught of death, and deliver me from this fate?”

 

“Nay, I cannot in good faith destroy a life. I do, however, have an idea for an alternative.” With these reassuring words, Esme put a cauldron over the hearth fire and began collecting various herbs from drying bunches hung from the ceiling. Alice ignited several additional lanterns to aid her mother’s potion brewing. “I can make a potion for thee that resembles death. Thou will fall into a deep slumber, and only when thy true path in life emerges from the chaos will thou wake.” She finished tossing and mixing ingredients, and poured the liquid into a small flask. “The last ingredient is a fresh teardrop. Add it just before for thou drink the potion. Godspeed, Isa.” With a kiss on the cheek from both Alice and Esme, Isabelle set out for the only place she could think that would bear the magic of her potion well: the wood with her blackberry bushes.

 

After what seemed a long, desperate hike toward her father’s home, she found a half-hollowed out trunk adjacent her berry bushes and extinguished the lantern. Still feeling despondent, but confident Esme’s brew would allow her to slumber ‘til death should her true destiny not emerge, Isabelle wiped her tears from her eyes into the bottle and swallowed the potion in one gulp and let the crickets lull her to sleep.

 

***

 

When she heard and felt everything still happening around her, Isabelle did not immediately recognize that she was not dreaming. It seemed the potion Esme gave her only prevented her from moving and speaking; it did not dull all her senses and allow her full respite. When her father and his brigade found her on the forest floor, they found she could not be moved more than a few feet from her makeshift bed, as though some invisible fence bound her to her place of rest. Charles called doctors and healers from across France to tend her, but she would not wake. A coma, some called it; heartbreak, said those who knew her. No medicine nor potion nor chalk could rouse her, and days of trial and error made her father despair.

 

As news of her affliction spread, Isa heard more and more people come to her aid. Carpenters came, and they built her a platform to lie on and shelter from the elements. Alice and Esme came in the night with soft words of whispered encouragement, and suggested to Charles that he hire some men to guard his daughter ‘round the clock. Isabelle felt nothing but some small hope during this time, and bore her silence easily. The village butcher and baker brought sustenance should she wake in the night; the candlestick maker brought lanterns to stave off insects and bring warmth. Her father visited regularly, and apologized for allowing the Queen to choose a husband for her. The Queen had informed him of the situation, then.

 

“I found that James himself was ordering those thefts, ma chère, though not until after he’d proclaimed several others guilty and hanged them. I have no proof as yet, darling, but I will find it and release thee from him, I swear it.”

 

For weeks, Isa laid there in her magical wood, listening as others came and confessed themselves to her. Villagers told her of petty gossip against her, against others sometimes, as well. The soft cool breezes of autumn soothed her aching muscles and the crickets and cicadas kept her company when people did not. When she lamented Edward’s continued absence, it seemed only moments until she heard his beautiful voice again. At first, she was sure she’d finally slipped into a dream, but his words were beautiful, so she savored them nonetheless.

 

“My beautiful lady, I came as soon as I heard the news of the Queen’s intentions for thee. My love, I should have visited much sooner, stayed by thy side, demanded to speak with thee at that ball. Now, if you do not wake, I will never know if thou return my love.” After that, he was mostly quiet, but he hummed lovely music and caressed Isabelle’s hand. She knew he was her destiny, but she was powerless to effect it. Another night, Edward thought of the fairy tales his mother read to him as a boy, and said to her, “Think thou a kiss might wake thee? Of course, I presume then that I am thy true love, which I know not, though I do sincerely hope. I would hate to steal one from thee. Perhaps one on the hand, then.” But again, she didn’t wake.

 

Rosalie came to Isabelle’s bedside one e’en following Edward’s departure. At first, the Queen said nothing at all. The Queen’s first _several_ visits, in fact, she said nothing at all. Isabelle wondered why the Queen visited her, when this was most certainly her doing. On Her Majesty’s eighth visit, she spoke. “I must confess myself jealous, I think. To be able to sleep, to forget the exigencies and the trials of the world surrounding thee, Isabelle, is a great gift. But I bear only hardships, not gifts. What I wouldn’t sacrifice to be in thy position now, lady.” Her tone was more sorrowful than she was used to hearing from the Queen; Isabelle was taken aback. Surprisingly, she wished Rosalie to speak more, but Rosalie spoke no more that day.

 

More days passed, and her regular visitors were a motley crew: the number of villagers dwindled, but the butcher, the baker, and the candlestick maker came sometimes; only her father, her Edward, and the Queen saw her frequently. Her father brought her blackberries, her Edward brought her music, and the Queen brought nothing. Slowly, though, the Queen spoke more openly. “I love my subjects, I do. I love all of France. I wish there were a way to divest myself of this black heart my husband’s given me and serve them as my father hoped I would. But I cannot put the evil rogue from my mind. His ruthlessness toward me is ever-present in my thoughts, the scars of what he’s done still etched on my thighs and stomach. I wish I could retch up all this hate inside me, but it remains.” That was the first night Isabelle saw more than hate inside her Queen.

 

When the nights grew colder, and winter closer, many people gathered in her wood to discuss what could be done for the girl. They could not move her, the spell would not allow it, and no method they’d attempted had worked thus far. Charles was at his wit’s end, and Isabelle was heartbroken to hear it, unable to soothe him or her Edward. It was Edward who suggested his idea of a fairy tale solution. Isabelle hated the idea that men other than her Edward would kiss her without permission, but if it meant she could feel Edward’s lips again, she was pleased.

 

And so she bore wet kisses, dry kisses, long kisses, short kisses, nice kisses, not-so-nice kisses, and all the kinds of kisses she could think of, but none roused her. Some made her quite grateful that she had no control, for she would surely retch if she could. James of Champagne, for instance, took a moment to revolt her and chill her bones with evil words before licking her mouth and covering her face in his rancid breath.

 

Sir Edward still had hope, though, and approached her with reverence. “My love, I do intend to wake thee, and give thee myself in marriage if thou would have me. Isabelle, ma petite chérie, je t’aime. Reveille-toi, ma belle…” and his kiss was wonderful and soft, sweet and lovely, but she did not wake like in the fairy tales of her childhood. She did feel her fingers and toes flutter, recognizing her love’s desire. She knew also that those who watched closely saw it happen, for there were gasps nearby that quieted sadly when her eyelids stayed resolutely shut.

 

He was defeated. The town folk gathered felt defeated. Her father felt defeated. And as they all trudged back to their homes, devoid of any more ideas, Isabelle felt her heart sag for them. Her hope wasn’t all lost, though, for she had faith that somehow her path would emerge. Either released to Sir Edward or following him in death, she would find him.

 

As it happens, events were set into motion the moment her phalanges fluttered at Edward’s kiss. Rosalie came to Isabelle’s open-air bedchamber only hours after, crying heavy tears. “I saw you, Isa. I saw you move. I know thou love him, and he loves thee. I cannot help but think thou has brought this terrible slumber upon thyself because of what I’ve done by promising thee to James.” She said more here, but her voice was so thick and broken that Isabelle could not discern the words. Only her Queen’s emotions were plain, and they broke Isabelle’s heart even more than Sir Edward’s despair somehow. She knew that she and Edward would find each other somehow, but what future did the Queen face?

 

“I am barren. I will not bear a son, lady, and my husband blames me. He’s always blamed me, though I suspect his brutality following our wedding is at fault. I did bleed for days, and begged for respite in death; instead I am doomed to live this life next to him. The only solace is that he will never be king.” The Queen stayed much longer than usual, but her presence did soothe Isabelle for some reason. Hearing that another shared a similar pain was cathartic, though she was not keen to wake and face brutality such as James’.

 

“I think I hoped that by damning another fair maiden to a fate such as mine would somehow make me feel better, and yet it does not. Here thou lay, quiet, heartbroken. And there are those who love thee, despondent. It gives me no peace to cause another such harm. And there is James, angry that his malevolence is staunched by thy sleep. And only I am to blame. I have condemned thee to this, haven’t I? Sweet Savior, forgive me this transgression against my own. Isabelle, please know how sorry I am for causing thee such sorrow. Please forgive me.” With this, she dissolved into sobs and fell at Isabelle’s feet.

 

The Queen no sooner asked for forgiveness than Isabelle granted it. Her toes and fingers were tingling again, her eyelids fluttering and her throat contracting, swallowing the night air. Her legs and arms twitched, and her mouth opened in a triumphant yell that startled the Queen from her tears. She was awake! She could move! She could holler to the high heavens! Seeing no better purpose for her arms at the moment, she crushed Rosalie to her in a bright hug and offered her all the forgiveness her tired voice could muster.

 

“Even better, Majesty, I must offer you news. These many months I have borne the secrets of those who visited me, and just this morning I overheard Count James of Champagne and your husband plotting against thee. In thy absence, James is next in line for the throne, is he not? Without an heir, Royce planned your assassination and James’ coronation, both of which would increase his stake. They are treasonous, my Queen; they seek your destruction. They must be hanged for their betrayal!”

 

And so Isabelle testified to the law-keepers, and the despicable men were hanged. After the trial, Rosalie asked Isabelle to help her dress for bed, a common task for her ladies-in-waiting. While brushing and plaiting her Queen’s flaxen hair, the Queen had one last thing to ask of her. “My dear Isabelle, thou have done so much to ease my pain, even while thou slept. I have only one way I can repay thee. I will release you back into court in the morning, and I’ve called Sir Edward to escort thee home to thy father. Unless I am mistaken, Sir Edward plans to ask thy father for thy hand. I wish you all the blessings upon your marriage.” This time, Isabelle’s tears were of pure joy.

 

“I thank thee for everything, Queen. But what will happen to thee now? With thy husband gone and no children possible? Surely the kingdom loves thee, and thou will rule with more compassion than before, but what of the future?”

 

“Ah, sweet girl, how very forward-thinking of you—an important trait in a future Queen. With James gone, my closest cousin is now your Edward. Whenever I decree it or upon my death, Sir Edward of Normandy will be King. And thou will be his tender Queen.”

 

Edward covered Isabelle with kisses every moment her father was absent, and they were married before the week was out. Rose resigned her throne shortly thereafter, and lived out her days with a German bear of a blacksmith, who loved her like the queen she was.

 

And every day of his reign, Isabelle’s sweet Edward told her she was his beautiful Queen.


End file.
